Author note: Chapter warning: canon-typical violence
As confident as she'd been when Harry had asked her if she didn't want to wait a day or two for Professor Snape's attempt to remove the curse, Hermione felt her courage begin to fail her as they waited for Snape to open the door for them. She couldn't help stealing a glance at the flat, black box that Harry carried in both hands. It didn't look big enough to be as heavy as he seemed to find it, but the runes of containment engraved on every surface hinted at the power it was designed to contain.
She shivered.
Ron put an arm around her shoulders. "Alright, Hermione?"
"Fine. A goose walked over my grave, that's all."
"A … what?"
His comically confused expression made Hermione smile. "It's just a Muggle saying."
"A mental one. I mean, how can you have a grave if you're alive? And why a goose? What's frightening about a goose? A vampire walking over your grave, fine, that's scary, except to have a grave you'd be dead and beyond scaring — but a goose? That's mad."
The door opened. Hermione took a deep breath and stepped over the threshold. No backing out now. It wasn't strictly true, of course — she could turn tail and run at any point until Professor Snape actually began to remove the curse — but she was definitely past the point at which she could bolt without it being absolutely clear her nerve had broken.
And I can just imagine what Severus Snape would say about 'Gryffindor courage' if I do that.
She straightened her shoulders and stepped into Snape's sitting room.
Although he must have been expecting them, Snape had made no effort in the direction of hospitality. Or common courtesy. There was still only the one chair, although it was in the centre of the room and not in front of the fire. Hermione had half-expected to find the rugs pushed back and the stone flags chalked with arcane patterns and ancient runes, but they lay undisturbed. The fire in the hearth was banked low, the desk at the other end of the room held neat piles of parchment, a few books, a half-dozen scrolls. Snape stood behind it, his attention on a scroll in his hand.
"Even a swan would make more sense, they can be vicious," Ron said as he followed her.
"Geese can be nasty," Harry pointed out, bringing up the rear with his box. "Especially in a group."
"Yes, but she didn't say 'a flock of rampaging hungry geese walked over my grave', did she?"
"As … fascinating as this is," Snape said, setting the scroll down, "perhaps now is the time to turn your attention to the task at hand, Weasley?"
"Absolutely, Snape," Ron said with just the slightest hint of emphasis. "Since we're being informal."
"Ron …" Hermione murmured, as Snape's eyes narrowed.
"If Professor Granger would remove her robe and roll up her sleeve, and Professor Potter would open the Ministry box I see he carries, then we can begin." The politeness in Snape's tone shaded past icy and all the way into lethal.
"And what will Professor Weasley do?" Ron asked.
"Wait. Quietly."
"Good luck with that," Harry said under his breath as he set the engraved box down on Snape's desk.
Hermione shrugged out of her robes and folded them neatly. She set them on the floor beside the chair and then, gritting her teeth, rolled up her sleeve to the elbow.
She expected some sort of exclamation from Harry, or at least Ron, at the sight of the scar of her arm, the silvery mudblood as clear as it had been in their time at Shell Cottage, but Harry was looking down at the box, fiddling with the catches, and Ron said nothing at all.
"Sit down, Professor Granger," Snape said. "Professor Weasley, Granger will need to be still while I undertake this. It may be difficult for her. You will ensure it."
"Hold the patient down, got it," Ron said. He grinned down at Hermione as she settled gingerly into the armchair. "Do you want a bit of wood to bite on, or something?"
"Have you got one handy?" Hermione asked.
His grin grew wider, and he reached into his pocket. "Here's one I prepared earlier …"
"Ron Weasley!" Hermione said, laughing. "How can you know about Muggle cooking shows and not about a goose walking over someone's grave?"
"It's a gift," he said blithely. "So you don't want something to bite on?"
"Just hold my hand," Hermione said. She thought she was joking until the words left her lips, and then she realised she was deadly serious.
"Hold hand of patient, roger." Ron knelt down beside the chair and took her hand in both his. "Like this?"
Hermione felt her throat get hot and swollen. "Perfect," she managed to say. "Professor Snape, is this going to hurt?"
"Yes," he said. Hermione wasn't sure whether to be irritated at his lack of reassurance or grateful for his honesty. She thought about asking him if she really needed to be awake for him to work, or if a quick dose of Dreamless Sleep might be called for. No. If it was going to be that bad, he'd suggest it. Severus Snape might be many things, most of them unpleasant, but she really couldn't imagine him as inefficient, and a screaming subject interrupting his concentration while he worked would definitely be that.
Snape and Harry took what seemed like an unreasonably long time to examine the contents of the box, both with wands in hand. Finally Harry straightened.
"So that's why …" he said.
Snape nodded slightly. "A very subtle and ancient piece of magic."
Ron cleared his throat. "There's no need to sound so admiring."
Snape ignored him. "Potter, you will hold the knife where I can see it as I work."
"Right." Harry hesitated. "In the box? Or …"
"In the box will be sufficient."
"Good." Harry sounded relieved. He picked up the box and carried it carefully over to the chair. Hermione looked away as he knelt down beside her. I know what that knife looks like.
"Weasley?" Snape said. "If you're quite ready?"
"Ready, Hermione?" Ron asked, and when she nodded, he put one hand on her forearm, just above the scar, and the other around her shoulders. "You just look at me, alright? I'm right here, and I'm going to be right here the whole time."
Hermione nodded. She reached up her free hand and took a firm hold of the front of his robe. "I'm ready," she said quietly, and braced herself. From the corner of her eye, she saw Snape raise his wand.
It wasn't the worst pain she'd ever felt — Hermione was fairly sure that, having been through the Cruciatus curse, nothing ever again would be the worst pain she'd ever felt — but it was a lot worse than she'd allowed herself to expect. After the first pass of Snape's wand over her scar, even with her gaze fixed on Ron's face she could see a thin trickle of crimson blood start oozing from the m with her peripheral vision. She closed her eyes and buried her face in Ron's chest.
The cuts that had left her with that scar had been agony, made worse by nerves still sparking and jumping with the aftermath of Cruciatus. This, though, slow and deliberate, was almost worse. Hermione could feel her skin part, a fraction of an inch at a time. She wanted to scream at Snape to get on with it, but she ground her teeth together and forced herself to hold still. Why oh why didn't I insist on taking Dreamless Sleep before he started?
Because you trusted him, you idiot. Because you trusted him, and because you wanted to prove how brave and Gryffindor you are, you fool, you stupid, stupid mudblood …
"Professor," she managed to say, in a voice that was thicker and shakier than she'd have liked. "I think it's fighting back."
Snape didn't answer her. Of course he wouldn't — why would he lower himself to speak to — No. No. He didn't answer because he can't interrupt what he's doing. That's all. That's all.
"You're doing fantastically well," Ron said, quietly. "It's nearly done, now. It's nearly finished."
As if the traces of Bellatrix's malice left beneath her skin heard him, Hermione felt her skin crawl with sudden revulsion. Stop. Stop. I can't — I can't — I'm not strong enough, I've never been strong enough — stop, leave it, stop — A wave of nausea swept over her, too sudden for her to fight, and she retched helplessly, vomiting partly on herself and partly on the chair but mostly on Ron.
"Hang on, Hermione," he said. His grip on her arm was very hard, now, painfully so, as if he was leaning more and more of his weight on that hand. Hermione couldn't shift it no matter how hard she struggled and writhed.
"Stop!" she screamed. "Stop, stop, stop it! Let me go!"
Snape didn't stop, and Ron didn't let her go, even when she let go of his robe and began to beat him with her clenched fist. Hermione cursed them, screamed at them, begged Harry to help her —
They all ignored her. Of course they're ignoring me. I'm just a —
"Get out of my head!" she howled. "You're dead, you crazy sadistic bitch! You're dead, and you lost, and you can get the fuck out of my head!"
"One more," Ron said. "Can you hear me, Hermione? There's just one more to go."
It was the worst of all of it, that final letter. Snape seemed to be working even more slowly, as if he wants to draw it out, to make me suffer —
That wasn't true, she knew it wasn't true, she knew he was helping her, Harry and Ron were helping her, they cared about her. And Snape, if he didn't exactly care, certainly didn't wish her ill. Hermione clenched her teeth until her jaw ached and told herself, over and over, the things that she knew to be true while the curse screamed along her nerves and told her she was worthless, useless, weak, unlovable —
Suddenly, it was over. Her arm still hurt, but it was a normal stinging pain, as if Crookshanks had raked her with his claws. The rest of her body ached with exhaustion, muscles fluttering with fatigue, as if she'd just run a marathon, and for the first time Hermione realised she was drenched in sweat. She felt lightheaded, as if she hadn't eaten all day, and yet not unwell. It was rather as if she'd just that moment recovered from a bad 'flu, when the relief of the fever breaking was so great it overwhelmed any lingering weakness.
"It's done," Ron said. He let go of her arm and hugged her. Hermione raised her head from his chest and lifted her arm so she could see it. The word mudblood was no longer a scar, but a fresh wound, blood trickling from the letters.
"Dittany," Snape said. He was kneeling by the armchair, wand still in his hand but resting on the thick rug. He was even paler than usual, and his lank hair was stuck to his face with sweat. He fumbled in his pocket, all his usual grace and precision gone. "Potter —"
"Got it." Harry, too, was pale. He closed the box and carefully set it down well away from all of them. He reached into Snape's pocket and drew out a small bottle. Uncorking it, he sprinkled the contents over Hermione's arm.
The pain faded, and the skin mended itself before her eyes. In seconds, the word was a barely visible pink.
"In a week or so, it will be gone," Snape said.
Ron released Hermione with one arm and produced his wand. A moment later, the smell of sick disappeared.
"Sorry about that," she said.
He grinned down at her, freckles standing out more vividly than usual. "What's a little vomit between friends? How are you feeling?"
"Very tired," she said. She leaned her head on his shoulder. "Professor Snape? Are you alright?"
"Perfectly," he said coldly, despite looking like a man who'd just gone three rounds with a Lethifold. He still hadn't moved from his position, kneeling by the chair, nor had he tucked away his wand. "Potter, the malice in that knife has been weakened, but it still exists. I suggest you return it to the Ministry at your earliest convenience."
"It still exists?" Hermione asked. She bit her lip. "So you didn't … it didn't entirely …?"
Snape raised an eyebrow, but only by a fraction. "If you are struggling against your Gryffindor tendencies to find a tactful way to ask me if I failed, Granger, set your mind at rest."
"You're officially de-cursed, Hermione," Harry said. He patted her arm. Hermione flinched as his fingers covered the letters etched in pink on her skin, and then realised she felt nothing at all — no tingle of pain, no ache, just the warm and reassuring touch of a friend. "I'm going to Floo in to the Ministry and get the knife back in the vault tonight."
"It's that bad?" Ron said. "I wasn't really watching."
Harry's mouth set in a grim line. "If I'd known what it's really like, I don't know if I'd have had the guts to take it out of the vault in the first place."
"Oh, do spare me your false modesty," Snape said wearily. He used the arm of the chair to lever himself to his feet, and for a moment he looked so unsteady that Hermione half-braced herself for him to fall into her lap. Then he steadied himself, and straightened. "You and Weasley would have staged the first successful robbery of the Ministry vault to help Granger, and everyone in this room knows it."
"Except every successful break-in to magically protected vaults needs a Hermione to succeed," Ron said.
Hermione smiled sleepily. "You make it sound like I come in packs of four."
Ron's arm tightened around her shoulders. "If you came in packs of four, old Foldysnort would have been done for five years earlier."
"As charming as all this is," Snape said acidly, "perhaps you might be induced to take the self-congratulations elsewhere before Professor Granger is not the only person moved to nausea this evening?"
"I think he's telling us to bugger off, Hermione," Ron said. "Can you get up, or will I Mobilicorpus you back to your rooms?"
"Bouncing me off every wall on the way? No thanks."
He grinned at her. "Unfair, I'm heaps better with my aim these days."
"Wouldn't be hard." With Ron's help, Hermione got to her feet. Snape had turned away from them and was staring into the banked fire, one hand on the mantelpiece and the other still holding his wand. "Professor?"
The only acknowledgement he gave her was the slightest turn of his head, showing her his beaky profile, eyes hooded.
"Thank you," Hermione said. "For … everything. Thank you."
Snape's chin dipped slightly, one bare nod, before he turned to stare into the fire again.
"Come on," Ron said, slipping an arm around her waist. "Let's get you lying down."